


Wisdom and other Alcohol-Related Mental Conditions

by A_Dozen_Lemmings



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, F/M, Gen, Something that might resemble trauma induced psychosis if this were Hollywood-Oscar-Bait in the 70's, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:14:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28375248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Dozen_Lemmings/pseuds/A_Dozen_Lemmings
Summary: Can you hear him? Hovering at your shoulder and generally making a nuisance of himself. You can? Excellent. Then at least that means we're both mad together, Eh? Georgie?
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8
Collections: 2020 Hinny Discord Incognito Elf Exchange!





	Wisdom and other Alcohol-Related Mental Conditions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flordetangerina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flordetangerina/gifts).



> AN. My inspiration for most of the Harry Ginny sections of this. As well as pretty much the entire plot.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NCkwAgTcDBw

I.  
It’s Halloween and somebody has spiked The hot cocoa. It wasn’t you. You think mum may have gotten her personal stash mixed up with the platter she normally lays out.

“Someone may have spiked the hot cocoa…”

“May have?”

Harry shrugs. “No, sorry, that was auror speak. What I mean is that somebody has spiked the hot cocoa.”

Ginny giggles softly when he corrects himself. 

As for you?

‘Look, George, So carefully he speaks!’ Oh… Yes, Harry’s pissed.

II.  
So how does it feel to be you?  
You wake up, you knock back a shot.

It’s a November morning. A week, two weeks? Since Halloween.

Go down to breakfast.  
When mum isn’t looking you convert the water into alcohol, at this point it’s not a matter of quality or type, and mix it into your orange juice.

If you down the glass fast enough you don’t feel the phantom sensation of an elbow in the ribs.  
‘Good one, Georgie!’

Weeks pass. Every time, mum continues to studiously fail to notice. Then she makes her own mixer with the rest of the glass of “water”.

III.  
Lunch at the shop is an exercise in futility. You eat.  
Verity, bless her, makes you. Has been making you for some time now.

Something happened, you know it. You don’t know what her, it, is.  
She gets it though. You hate that she does. But she does.

What happens next, what has kept happening next for months, is unhealthy and you both should have known better.

It can’t last. It would break you both if it did. When she moves away, it surprises everyone but you. December is proving to be cold.

IV.  
“S’like… Sometimes… sometimes I feel them whispering to me you know.”

Oh, you know.

“Shsometimess.” you slur back at Harry. “I can feel him. Standing right there. Like he’s waiting for a good line to jump in on.”

It is dinner time and Harry has finally detached himself from your sister.

‘Eugh George. That’s a thought I didn’t need!’

The two of you are spending it in a booth at the Leaky.

V.  
You catch the two of them dancing. It’s odd, you remember a specky kid, but he’s… Not tall. Not like Weasleys generally are. But he certainly seems it. Like he finally fits those flashes of potential you and everyone had seen once upon a time in your fairytale classroom.

The song playing on the radio is something you don’t recognize. Slow and aching. Muggle, maybe?

It’s only as they turn that you notice Ginny sobbing into Harry’s collar. Holding on like the only thing holding her up is him.

Harry, Unlike anytime you have ever seen him contend with people’s emotions, just holds her.

“I miss him!” It almost seems she’s choking into his shirt when she speaks.

“I know.” Harry… Harry looks like he’s in actual pain. His fingertips stroking through her hair almost as much reassurance for himself, as for her.

“It’s almost Christmas,” She whispers. “He’s not... Fred’s not here. Oh, God. I don’t know what to do!”

‘Oh but that’s so simple Gin-bug, shots and pranks, In that order!’

You snort lightly despite yourself. Thank god they don’t hear.

It’s only as you stare at five bottles of Ogden's Finest and make yourself leave them unopened in the back of your closet that you realize this may actually be something of a plan forming.

VI.  
No one else is supposed to be at the House today so you’ve been setting up some of the minor pranking spells you and Fred had brainstormed on a lazy Saturday in your third year at Hogwarts.

It is... Nice, to remember Fred and smile.

You only realize you’re not alone when you step on the bra (Is that Bumble Bee yellow!?) in the door to the sitting room.

You can’t help yourself. You really can’t. It’s like watching a train derail in slow motion.

“Are you sure this is okay, you must be uncomfortable?” Harry asks her. Yes because even pushing her against a window, he’s utterly un-hateable!

Ginny cackles at him through a gasp. 

‘Oh hell. It’s like 9 below out there!’

“Of course its uncomfortable Harry. That’s what makes it so fucking hot!”

‘Georgie, Did she just?’

“Merlin! Ginny, did you just!?”

Nope! Not dealing with this!

‘Run, George! Run!’

Ginny has a wicked look in her eyes at dinner that night when she asks Harry for ice.

VII.  
The little pranks are building up. It feels good. It’s you building memories atop your memories of Fred. 

Not forgotten. A foundation.

Also, You’ve managed to trap Ginny and Harry in a mildly compromising position in The Burrow’s kitchen.

‘Today is a good day!’

You smile as you walk away whistling to yourself.

“George!”

You smile wider.

VIII.  
By the time dinner time rolls around the embarrassment has achieved a nice simmer and you cannot stop grinning.

Harry will not look at you. At all. His face goes red every time he catches sight of you.

Or Fleur.

Or Bill.

Ginny alternates blushing and glaring. At you, at Fleur, Especially at Bill.

Ha! You knew she had a favourite!

Mum, bless her, just feeds everyone more to try to kill the awkwardness. Which, admittedly, seems to be working.

Can’t have that.

“Zo ‘Arry, ‘ow waz your day?” Oh. That was a much thicker accent than usual. “Waz eet, Oh Beell, What is ze word?

“Productive?”

“Oui! Productive!”

Fleur’s going to mess with them too! Ye~es!

“Er… I… Guess?”

“Yeah. It seemed like an… Involved... project, when we stopped by earlier.”

“Oh, that’s nice of you Dear. What was the issue?”

“Plumbing, by the looks of it.”

Bill is Joining in!?

“Oh oui, uie, Ginny was helping quite a lot too.

Your eyes bounce from person to person. Watering with glee.

“Oh! That was sweet of you dear. Did you two finish?”

‘Do. Not. Cackle!’

“That is an excellent question mum!” You blurt out. “Did you two… Finish?”

Ginny chokes on water and Harry on a mouthful of peas.

You shoot back a half a glass of… something alcoholic.

‘My God, today has been great!’

IX.  
Today Sucks.

‘Does it though, Georgie?’

On consideration… It sucks.

‘Yeah, yeah I suppose it does.’

You snarl, a shockingly animalistic noise.

“You’re not here! And they’re all moving forward and I can’t! I can’t! They have someone to turn to and I don’t and Every time I fucking smile it feels like I’m turning my back on you!”

“You’re not though, George.”

‘He’s right, you know.’

“Fred would be ecstatic at you what pulled on Harry and Ginny.”

“Fuck off Ronniekins!”

“Nah. This snowpack is kind of comfortable now that I’m too numb to feel the cold. I think I’ll stay right here.” You’ve caved. Just a little bit today. You cracked one of those bottles of Ogden’s. You’ve been out here by Fred’s Headstone for, Merlin, hours now. Ron’s been here the whole time. Perched in a snowbank like some sort of king on a throne.

‘George when did he go and grow up on us, the inconsiderate prat!’

“When did you go and grow up on all of us Ronald?” You ask. Falling backwards to look up at the night sky. The snow, falling steadily like this? Part of you is sure it’s liable to bury you.

Part of you isn’t sure that’s a bad thing.

“Well, it took me a while,” He begins. “There was this Dark Lord you see.”

‘Ha! What a git! I say we keep him!’

“Git!” You snort.

X.  
Christmas...

Just, breathe. This is it. You’re not drunk. Not even buzzed. After tonight, you’ve promised yourself. You won't be anymore. It’s a shame everyone couldn’t be here. But you get it. British magical society is a shambles. And the pieces need picking up.

Ron’s in Australia. Charlie’ll be here for New Year’s Eve. Bill and Fleur are picking their way over to you now through the waist-deep snow.

Harry and Ginny are sitting here with you. Ginny has that stubborn slightly bloodshot look in her eyes that means she’s been forcing the tears back by sheer force of will again.

It’s… Perhaps it doesn’t speak well of you but It’s nice to know she’s been crying. Even if she won’t let you see it. That she trusts Harry so much. Even after what happened to her in your fourth year. That’s part of it. But, to know that someone in your family is having as hard a time holding it together as you are.

It’s reassuring.

Because while you never needed one before, it’s comforting to have a reminder that you’re not alone.

And It’s comforting to know that neither is she.

“Everyone here then?”

“Yeah. I think we are. Mum and Dad have put wards over their room and frankly, I don’t want to give that any more thought than I already have.”

“Grow up, Bill.”

“Make me, Gin-Bug!”

“Damn.” Harry sighs, tossing a sickle to Fleur. “I thought they’d need at least a minute!”

“Poor, sweet, child,” says Fleur. “Never bet against siblings willingness to argue among themselves.”

“You would think I’d know better by now…Anyway though. What’s the plan?”

“Oh, that’s simple!” You announce with a flourish. Three and a half bottles of Ogden’s finest appearing from your cloak as though from thin air. Merlin’s pants muggle sleight of hand was a useful skill to learn.

You’ve not been as strong as you wanted. But you’ve been strong enough to go through with this petty little scheme of yours.

You place the full bottles on Freds headstone

“Shots!”

You down half the remains of the partial and dump some of the rest of it for Fred.

After Carefully placing a row of conjured tumblers beside the bottles, you spin with a showman’s clap. Only slightly unsteady. Hey, relative sobriety has its perks!

“Also Pranks!”

“What!”

“George!”

“Oh, merde!”

“Ha! Yes, Fear me! Anyway, you all have about fifteen or twenty minutes to finish that whisky and get back to the house before all of your clothes vanish!” 

“George!”

“What!”

“Branleur!”

“Good luck!”

You can’t help the cackle, you can’t. Really.

‘Merlin’s pants! Their faces!’

“Yeah!” You sigh happily. Making your way to the front steps.

“You know the best part.”

‘What’s that?’

“There’s no jinx, no curse, nor ward.”

‘No spells?

“None.”

‘Merlin!’

“Yeah!”

‘That’s… Well played, Georgie.’

It's… probably not a sign of good mental health to warm up with pride when the voice of your dead brother congratulates you in your head.

“Thanks... Fred.”

‘Ah. Well. So it’s time then?’

“Long past it, I think.”

‘With a bang at least?’

“No way else.”

You grin like you used to before the world went mad, at the space over your shoulder.

‘Excellent! Hey Georgie… Do us a favour, yeah? Pour it all in. Get it out. It’ll make a good start.’ 

You nod. Glancing at the white knuckle grip you have on the violently sloshing bottle.

You hurl the Whisky bottle away from you, unfinished. The arc is high and it catches the moonlight almost like you're dreaming. By the time it starts to fall, your wand is up. Smooth. Clean movements. Your snarled/choked/sobbed Bombarda connecting with the force of a cannonball. The glass bursts and the remaining liquor spatters over the snow like blood.

You breathe, Harshly. Then more slowly. Fogging the cold December air.

You turn. Make your way to your room. Grin to the sound of your family cursing your name and doing shots.

You sleep well.


End file.
